


Lullabies For A Heavy Heart

by Myrime



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Depression, Don't copy to another site, Family, Gen, Light Angst, May Is The Best, Nightmares, Parent Tony Stark, Peter Parker Gets a Hug, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Suicidal Thoughts, fear of the dark, iron man bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-11-08 00:44:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17971229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Myrime/pseuds/Myrime
Summary: “I’m fine,” Peter says, aiming for a dismissive tone but ends up sounding desperate.Next to him, Mr. Stark chuckles darkly. He rubs the bridge of his nose, then looks at Peter. “Give it a few more years of bottling everything up and you might even make that sound believable.”- After getting buried under several tons of concrete, Peter can't sleep anymore. Luckily, he has his family looking out for him, even though he does not know it.





	Lullabies For A Heavy Heart

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the Iron Man Bingo, square 'Afraid of the Dark'. Plus, Dad!Tony feelings.   
> Enjoy!

If Peter squints his eyes just so, the traffic far beneath him looks the way the Christmas lights did when Uncle Ben swirled him through the air in their living room when he was five. With just a bit of imagination he can remember better times. They laughed so often, and they were so full of love. Lights were something beautiful, and not just something to keep the darkness at bay.

Peter wishes he could not pinpoint the exact moments his life spiralled out of control: when he took too long to claw his way out from underneath that collapsed building, when he disappointed Mr. Stark, when he thought he could be a hero, when Uncle Ben died and Peter did nothing.

He should not blame himself for things out of his control – that is what people have told him countless times. The thing is, Peter should be more in control than others, because he can do more, withstand more. He should be better than this.

Instead, he sits on a rooftop in Manhattan in the middle of the night, staring down at the passing cars without blinking until his eyes hurt, and thinks about giving up.

He is cold and tired, and he has school in the morning. He is breaking promises by being out here, no matter that he is not even on patrol but is simply wallowing in self-pity. The mere thought of getting back into his room, of lying in the dark waiting for the nightmares to get him, drains all the energy out of his limbs.

Peter is fifteen years old – _too_ old to be afraid of the dark. Worse, it is too old for him to _develop_ a fear of the dark. Realism has nothing to do with it. He is Spider-Man after all. Toomes might have dropped a building down on him, but he had clawed his way out by himself. He can take whatever fate throws at him.

Still, he cannot lie in his bed – in his own room in Aunt May and his home – and close his eyes at night without being back there, several tons of concrete pressing down on him and darkness all around.

Even now, with nothing but sky surrounding him and hundreds of lights flowing underneath, Peter’s lungs are not yet functioning properly again. The air is stale and sluggish, and his chest constricts instead of letting it in. Panic tugs at him from all sides. He could find the highest, most open place in the world, but his head will always seek out his demons, as if life does not offer kinder things to dance with.

When Peter’s spider sense acts up, he does not pay it much mind at first. The more he becomes lost in his own head, the less reliable it becomes, or so it seems. Sometimes it fires all day long, right along with Peter’s heartbeat in his ears. Sometimes he grows numb enough to not notice it at all.

Moments later, though, he hears the familiar sound of repulsors firing and then Iron Man appears right in front of Peter. He hovers in the air for a long moment, in which they simply stare at each other, before he settles down next to Peter with what could just as well be a shrug.

Peter is mortified, utterly certain that the suit’s sensors can pick up the way his heartrate rockets and his cheeks burn. At the same time, hard clumps of anger coil in the pit of his stomach. He was doing nothing wrong, so there is no need for Iron Man to check up on him.

Pulling his arms around him, Peter resolves to say nothing. With how on edge he is already, any conversation they might have cannot end well.

As it is, Mr. Stark caves first. “Hey, kid,” he says in that fake-cheerful way adults sometimes use when they are internally ready to give a lecture. The suit folds away from his face, but Peter does not look at Mr. Stark’s expression, preferring to hide for a few moments longer.

If possible, Peter’s chest becomes even tighter. He blinks furiously, concentrating on the lights passing by underneath. His feet are dangling over the edge of the building. One small push and he could be falling, getting away. He has no illusion that Iron Man would not catch up with him, but then he might forget what he originally came here to yell about.

Sullenly, Peter stays silent. He is not the intruder here, so he does not have to be polite.

“It’s past your curfew,” Mr. Stark says when it becomes clear that Peter will not answer.

Peter closes his eyes, annoyed, but then rips them back open again. Even here, with lights still flickering behind his lids, and Iron Man sitting right next to him, he cannot deal with darkness. It is ridiculous.

Despite his resolve not to talk, Peter says, “I know.”

Noise usually helps. That night, underneath that building, Peter’s ears were ringing so much that he could hear nothing but that at first. And afterwards, there was nothing to hear but rumbling stone and grinding bones.

“Which means,” Mr. Stark continues as if Peter has not already admitted to breaking the rules, “you should be tucked away in your bed, chasing sheep instead of small-time criminals.”

The mere mention of being tucked in has jolts of anxiety piercing Peter’s gut. He almost laughs at that, because he sometimes cannot believe what a wreck he has become.

“I know,” he repeats, gritting his teeth as he looks up. Nothing but a starless sky above him, too dark to bring comfort.

“And yet I find you sitting on a rooftop in Manhattan.” While Mr. Stark’s tone could be mistaken for conversational, his face is clouded over. Peter regrets glancing at him. “A rather high rooftop at that. Your heartrate is elevated and –”

“I know,” Peter snaps, louder than he meant to.

What is Mr. Stark insinuating here? That Peter is going to jump? He does that a dozen times a day. It is kind of his thing. So what if it has crossed his mind before not to shoot out a web sometime, to just keep plummeting until it is too late, despite the spider sense screaming in his ears. When he is falling, at least, there is no concrete pressing in around him.

“What do you want?” Peter asks, shooting Mr. Stark an accusing look that seems to bounce off him as if the suit is built to fend off emotions as well as bullets.

Mr. Stark takes his time to answer in which he watches Peter closely. His eyes linger on the dark bags under Peter’s eyes and the way his fingers dig into his own flesh, trying to ground himself. “I want to know how you’re doing.”

Peter is not sure whether the softness in Mr. Stark’s voice makes everything worse. Here he is, pulling Mr. Stark out of his bed or workshop, forcing him to check up on Peter because he cannot even have his panic attacks on his own time, out of the way where he will not disturb anyone else.

“Never better,” Peter answers, and winces at how forced it sounds. He wonders whether he will ever become better at lying.

Humming pensively, Mr. Stark shakes his head. “This is the fourth night in a row you’ve sat out here.”

Peter snaps up his head and glares. They had a deal, Peter would take the suit and Mr. Stark would not use it to control him. He wants to pull off the suit right now, no matter how comforting it usually is, reminding him that he can do better, _be_ better than weak Peter Benjamin Parker. 

Instead, he asks, his tone biting, “Are you monitoring where I’m going now?”

“I’m worried,” Mr. Stark counters immediately, as if that makes anything better. Worry is not an excuse, and worry is not a reason. Peter is his own person and if he wants to sit on a rooftop all night, trying to escape his nightmares, that is nobody’s business but his own.

Then a thought occurs to him that is enough to elevate his slight annoyance into downright anger. “You said Karen wasn’t going to report to you.”

It cannot have been anyone else. He left his phone at home, and Ned deactivated the tracker in the suit, which leaves only the AI that Peter has come to view as a friend. He should have known that she will always remain Mr. Stark’s creation first.

“She didn’t,” Mr. Starks counters calmly, but Peter barely bothers to listen to him and whatever excuses he is going to cook up.

“Then how did you know where I am?”

Even before Mr. Stark opens his mouth, Peter knows that he is not going to like his answer. His lips are twisted down in a way that is so far removed from the always-in-control persona he usually wears when dealing with difficult situations, that Peter does not doubt he will tell the truth.

“May called me.”

For a long moment, the world seems to freeze. The noises of the traffic far below them, already very distant, vanish completely. The lights come to a standstill, growing first dim then blinding. Peter’s heart is calm, right before it breaks into a hiccupped gallop that has him tasting guilt on his tongue.

“What?” he croaks, willing Mr. Stark to have said something else, anything else. But to no avail.

“Your aunt,” Mr. Stark says firmly. There is no way he does not notice Peter wince, but he keeps talking anyway. “She’s worried about you. Says you don’t eat, you’re not talking about your friends anymore. She hears you when you climb out of your window at night. And she’s scared for you because she can’t follow you here.”

Peter had tried to keep May out of this, to be as quiet as superhumanly possible when he climbed out of his window, to appear awake and cheerful in the mornings, to tell stories from school as he used to when they meet up in the evenings for dinner. There is no need to burden her with his pathetic fears, and not just because Peter does not fancy telling her about Toomes and his bodged try at heroism. May has gone through enough. Grief has settled into her bones, too readily called upon, and Peter does not want to be the one to break her.

It is all Peter’s fault that they are not talking to each other anymore. He has changed, and likely not for the better.

“I’m fine,” Peter says, aiming for a dismissive tone but ends up sounding desperate.

Next to him, Mr. Stark chuckles darkly. He rubs the bridge of his nose, then looks at Peter. “Give it a few more years of bottling everything up and you might even make that sound believable.”

“What would you know about that?” Peter asks, angry that no one believes him, even though he cannot even believe himself, no matter how often he tries. He cannot count the hours he has spent trying to get his mind off things, only to end up right where he began, with memories pressing in and panic in his heart.

Mr. Stark seems older than he ever has. Perhaps it is the light of the arc reactor that accentuates the lines on his face in the darkness. Perhaps it is the way his shoulders are slumped when Peter knows him to always be upright. Perhaps it is the earnestness in his eyes that are never once leaving Peter’s.

“It’s what I do,” Mr. Stark then says, making it sound like something bad. He shrugs but the movement looks forced, and it does nothing to lessen the intensity in his gaze. “But you don’t have to. You could be smarter than I am and talk to someone.”

Disappointment floods Peter’s system, it pushes down the panic but also the hope that Mr. Stark would have a solution to this. Talking is not an option, even if he could simply open his mouth and let his fears spill out. Who could he talk to? May, who is already so worried about losing the last remaining member of her family? Ned, who still thinks that Peter being Spider-Man is the coolest thing since buttered bread? Mr. Stark himself, who has fought off much worse demons than a simple fear of darkness?

With resounding resoluteness, Peter shakes his head. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

He would not know how to put it into words anyway. _Remember that time you told me to back off and leave the real criminals to you? Yeah, I didn’t and ended up buried under a building. Since then I can’t sleep._ That would go over so well.

Mr. Stark keeps watching him for a minute longer before he nods in apparent acceptance. Peter half-expects him to fire up the repulsors and leave. There is no need for Mr. Stark to waste his time here anymore if Peter is being uncooperative after all.

Instead, he settles back and says, “Then tell me about your day.”

Sputtering, Peter can do nothing but stare. This is not what they do. Sometimes they meet up in the workshop and build things together, sometimes they talk science for hours. Sometimes they eat dinner together and watch movies until late at night. They do not talk about feelings, however, and Mr. Stark never asks about Peter’s day in this tone that means he is talking about everything but school.

“What are you even doing here?” Peter asks, not caring for how ungrateful he sounds. Mr. Stark is still his hero, but he is so tired. He just wants to sleep through one night. He just wants to go through his day without dreading to go home because the sun will inevitably go down and then he will be alone with his memories.

“We are all worried,” Mr. Stark says. He shifts his position, moves his hand almost like he is going to reach out for Peter but then just waves it through the air. “May and Happy and I.”

A laugh crawls up Peter’s throat. Happy would not be worried about Peter. He probably only realizes that his working hours will get even crazier if someone does not put a stop to Peter’s mindless wanderings at night, although Peter has been trying not to call Happy anymore, no matter what happens.

“There’s nothing to worry about,” Peter lies. This is just another variant of _I’m fine_. If he repeats it often enough, he _must_ begin to believe it. That is how it works, yes? Fake it till you make it, and all that nonsense. One step at a time. It is just that he feels like he has not made any progress at all.

“Peter –” Mr. Stark sighs. He sounds so disappointed that Peter’s gut begins churning in immediate response. There he is, his hero, looking down at him, realizing how very fragile he truly is.

“I can’t sleep, all right?” Peter snaps before he knows what he is doing. He has not meant to say anything, but there it is, right out in the open. “I’m being a big baby about all of this and I can’t sleep.”

His own words echo in his head, pulling the starless sky further down towards him. To make matters worse, Mr. Stark looks relieved, satisfied even, as if needling Peter into an admission is somehow an achievement.

“There we go,” Mr. Stark says. Now he does reach out, his bare hand brushing against Peter’s shoulder before Peter pulls away. He will probably feel guilty about this later, because Mr. Stark is only trying to help, but this is not what Peter needs. “What can I do?”

He sounds so earnest that Peter cannot help but cringe, curling up on himself.

“Nothing,” Peter says. When Mr. Stark raises an eyebrow at him, he adjusts quickly, “I’m dealing with it.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Mr. Stark mutters, almost too quiet to hear. Louder, he adds, “All right, baby steps.” He sounds almost business-like now, looking at nothing but Peter. “Why can’t you sleep? Nightmares? Guilt? Are you afraid of something that happened or something you might fail at?”

Peter stares, mouth hanging open. He feels like he is failing a test he should have studied for, while his teacher is giving him every chance he can to pass anyway. “What?”

A smile flits over Mr. Stark’s face that looks self-deprecating for some reason, like he has been here before and it did not end well. If not for their topic of conversation, the attention would be nice. Like this, however, Peter feels like some broken thing in Mr. Stark’s workshop, waiting until someone fixes him.

“If you wear your watch at night, Karen can wake you if you have a nightmare,” Mr. Stark explains unprompted, apparently trusting Peter to get with the program on his own. “Half of Jarvis’ job was to keep me sane at night.”

That, finally, rouses Peter from his numb astonishment at Mr. Stark pretending to care – to _understand_. No matter how little he wants to talk about this, he cannot let Mr. Stark think that something bad happened to him, that he is justified in his little teenage rebellion of sneaking out past his curfew. He might be damaged, yes, but that is because he is not strong enough to shake off a little trauma.

“Stop comparing us,” Peter says, his tone firmer than he thought possible with the night still pressing in on all sides. “You’re – you’re Iron Man. And I’m just afraid of the dark.”

There it is. He said it. The whole pathetic reason Peter is running. He has been warned away from taking on someone so obviously out of his league and now he cannot live with the consequences of having done it nonetheless. Even so, claustrophobia would be more understandable, and it is not like Peter does not feel panic reaching for him when he thinks of small spaces – but _darkness_? He should be better than that.

Mr. Stark hums in response. His expression is somewhat brittle, sad. Peter expected him to laugh and make a joke – not maliciously, of course, but he always seems to laugh everything off – but this is somehow worse.

“There’s no just about that, kid,” Mr. Stark says, almost unbearably gentle, as if he has been there, as if he has fought the same doubts. “Do you think that a metal suit can keep me safe from the horrors my mind cooks up on a daily basis?” He shrugs, takes the sharpness out of his words. “I had nightmares long before I became Iron Man, and I wasn’t a vigilante superhero running around saving people. I was just a selfish brat making everybody’s life miserable.”

Before Peter can even think of a suitable response – because Mr. Stark is brilliant, with or without the suit, and he has been young once, yes, and maybe making weapons for a living was not the best use of his brain, but Peter is not going to believe that Mr. Stark has ever been purely selfish, not with the people that matter – he gets cut off by Mr. Stark. This time, he does not shrug off the hand on his shoulder. Mr. Stark looks too serious for that, too vulnerable.

“If you think you shouldn’t be afraid, I’ll have to take you to the compound. All of us are afraid. Be it of water or heights or darkness.” Mr. Stark shrugs, squeezes his shoulder. “There’s no shame in that.”

Peter wonders whether he is talking of himself or Rhodey when he speaks of fear of heights. Or someone completely different. Because the both of them are still flying. They do not let their fears conquer them – other than Peter.

“But nothing happened,” he insists stubbornly. He got out, after all. It took him hours and left him bruised all over, but he got out.

“Even if I believed you,” Mr. Stark says wryly, never taking his arm off Peter’s shoulder as if he wants to convey that it is all right for him to not tell everything right now, “fear exists to warn us before something happens. It’s there too keep us from getting ourselves killed.”

“It’s stupid,” Peter counters sullenly. It is not like there is something trying to kill you in his own bedroom. No demons will sneak up on him if he keeps his eyes closed for longer than five seconds straight.

Mr. Stark flashes a grin. “Emotions mostly are,” he agrees. “And yet we fling ourselves headfirst into them every opportunity we get.”

With that he falls silent. Peter waits for him to ask more questions. He sits completely still, hoping to drag the moment out as long as possible. This is nice, him sitting next to Tony Stark with New York spreading out beneath them. The hand on his shoulder is grounding him as surely as Karen’s voice in his ear does during a fight. The suit’s arc reactor creates enough light for Peter to relax for the first time in weeks. If only life could always be like that.

After long minutes, Mr. Stark draws back his hand and the suit unfolds to cover it immediately. Peter watches him go with regret.

“Let’s get you home, kid,” Mr. Stark says quietly. It is not exactly an order, but he does not sound as irritated anymore as when he came, not as concerned. Peter is not sure what he has done to put Mr. Stark’s mind at ease. Perhaps it is simply that he has not run away immediately.

Tapping the side of his helmet, which is likely more for show, Mr. Stark says, “Happy, be so kind to bring up the car. We’ve got a little spider to bring home.”

While Mr. Stark listens for an answer, Peter feels his body growing rigid once again. “Why’s Happy here?” he asks, wondering whether Mr. Stark trusts him so little that he has Happy spying on him. “I thought he’s not your driver anymore.”

Mr. Stark’s face grows soft. It looks just as right on him as his smirk does, just as heartfelt. That might be the only reason Peter believes him.

“As I said, we’re all worried,” Mr. Stark answers without hesitation. “I couldn’t have kept him away even if I had wanted to.”

“That’s – I –” Peter stammers, completely taken by surprise. He is not sure there is anything he can say to do that statement justice. Why would they worry for him? May, yes, because she is stuck with him. They are family. But Mr. Stark and Happy?

Before he can embarrass himself further, Mr. Stark gets to his feet. “Meet you down on the street,” he says, making it sound like a challenge. He is already half-turned away when he stops again. “And Peter, when you’re ready, I’m willing to listen,” he promises like it is the most natural thing in the world. “We all are.”

 

* * *

 

They deliver him right in front of his and Aunt May’s apartment house. Worse, Mr. Stark gets out of the car immediately, holding Peter’s door open for him and gestures at the door.

“After you,” he says, making it clear that they will not let him go alone.

Perhaps they think he will just run again. More likely, May made them promise to pass him directly into her hands.  Peter is not in the mood to protest. In fact, he is somewhat scared of going up there alone, although there is no doubt that Mr. Stark is on Aunt May’s side here.

Happy waves his goodbye, the frown never once leaving his face. He watches them all the way until they are out of sight. Mr. Stark, meanwhile, follows Peter closely, a comforting if pushing presence in his back. It should be annoying, but Peter wants so hard to believe that they care that he does not mind.

The lights are on in the hallway when he quietly opens the door to their apartment. It should not surprise him, because Mr. Stark had said that May called him, but he had hoped to delay this conversation until morning. Well, until never, really, but at least until it is not dark outside anymore. No such luck.

May comes into sight before they have even fully come into the apartment. She looks older than she should, worry lines around her eyes, and Peter feels immediately guilty. He did that to her.

“Peter,” she exclaims with obvious relief, and rushes towards him to pull him into her arms. There is nothing to do but to melt into her embrace. This is still the safest place in the world.

“I’m sorry,” Peter mutters against her shoulder, wishing they could stay like this. He does not fight, however, when she pulls away.

She does not go far, anyway, but keeps her hands on his shoulders, studying him closely as if she expects him to be wounded, as if she feared he would not return at all. “I’m glad you’re home.”

Peter tries to smile but he is sure it comes out twisted. Everything does these days.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Mr. Stark speaks up. He sounds a little lost, but when Peter turns around to look at him, he is completely in control, as always. “Call me if you need anything.” Then he cocks his head to the side and grins. “I’ve heard they’re selling arc reactor nightlights. Or I could build you the real thing.”

He would, Peter is sure of that in this moment. His throat constricts, unsure whether to laugh or cry. “Thank you, Mr. Stark,” he says, hoping that everything he cannot say will be heard anyway.

Mr. Stark smiles. “Any time, kid.”

With Mr. Stark gone, May leads Peter to the kitchen and pushes him down into a chair. She watches him a minute longer, clearly unwilling to let him out of her eyes, even for a moment.

“Hot chocolate?” she then asks, just like she had every time he had a nightmare about his parents being gone when he was a child. She does not wait for an answer either but simply turns around and begins the familiar motions. They likely calm her down as much as it does Peter to watch her. He is home.

They do not talk until two steaming mugs stand on the table and May sits down next to him, taking one of his hands into her own. The whole apartment is brightly lit.

“Are you all right?” May asks quietly.

_We are all worried_ , Mr. Stark’s voice echoes in Peter’s ear. _May called me. She’s scared for you because she can’t follow you here_.

He remembers the first weeks after Uncle Ben’s death. He remembers how May smiled for him, woke him up in the morning even if she worked the night shift, made dinner while asking about his day. He remembers hearing her cry at night and not knowing how to comfort her, because he had been there and could not save Ben. Because he is just the nephew she got stuck with. Because he was so afraid of losing her too that he held onto that smiling version of her, no matter how frail that was, instead of facing reality together.

Every time she left the house then, he was afraid she would not come back. Every time she was late, he thought he had already lost her.

Looking at her now, Peter realizes that it is just the same for her, every time he puts on the suit and sneaks out through his window, every time he is on the news, fighting, every time he does something she cannot protect him from.

So, here is the million-dollar question, he does not dare to answer honestly, even to himself. Is he all right?

“No?” Peter says, and bites his tongue. “I mean, I guess. It just gets too much sometimes.” He winces, because who is he to complain about hardships when it is her who has to carry them both?

He does not notice that he is avoiding to look at May until she reaches out and gently pulls his face back towards her.

“I – You can always come to me, you know that, right?” May asks, sounding so uncertain that Peter’s chest starts aching. “You don’t have to talk about what you do out there. You can just –” She trails off, lets her hand fall but smiles when he catches it. “I know I’m always busy, but you will always be more important. I don’t want you to think that I’ve got no time for you.”

Peter never wanted May to doubt herself. She is the best, most caring and selfless person he knows. No matter that her world fell apart, she was always there for him. It is not fair that, as soon as he started discovering his own, he left her behind, no matter that it was to keep her safe.

“I love you,” Peter says and means it with all his heart. It might not be the answer May deserves, but it is nonetheless true.

May blinks but smiles. “I love you too.” She seems to sense that this is all she will get out of Peter tonight for she sits a little straighter. “Now, how about we watch a movie and eat ice cream?”

It is the middle of the night and she looks tired, but Peter wants nothing more than to curl up next to her on the couch and keep the darkness at bay for a while longer.

“You’ve got work tomorrow morning,” he protests weakly. He anticipates May rolling her eyes but is nonetheless glad when she does.

“You say that as if you won’t fall asleep before the opening scene is over,” she counters fondly, already getting to her feet and picking up their mugs.

“That was one time,” Peter cries. With every word, he feels more weight sliding from his shoulders. He is home. For once, he is feeling safe too.

“You clearly forgot how to count since you took up vigilantism,” May jokes, barely even faltering over the too casual mention of his after-school occupation. “Don’t they teach you young heroes anything these days?”

Peter stops May on her way over to the freezer. “I mean it, May,” he says with all the conviction he has, “I love you.”

Her arms open immediately. “Come here, my boy.”

Peter does not hesitate to curl into her warmth once again. He does not think he will ever tire of her embraces.

When they part, he feels lighter than he has in weeks. The smile comes easily to his lips. “I call dibs on the chocolate ice cream.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.   
> (This is only the second time I've written Peter, so I hope I didn't mess it up.)  
> I'd love to hear from you!


End file.
